# Lannisport, 290 AC - The Arrival
The city of Lannisport spread before them like something from a fever dream—white stone buildings with red tile roofs, golden lions flying from every tower, the harbor packed with ships bearing sigils from across the realm. And above it all, carved into the mountain itself, loomed Casterly Rock.
"It's enormous," Myrcella breathed, pressing her face against the carriage window.
"It's a mountain," Percy said, craning his neck to see the top. "They literally carved a castle out of a mountain. That's—that's insane. That's brilliant and insane."
"That's Lannister," Joffrey said, and there was undisguised pride in his voice. "This is our heritage. Our family's seat of power for thousands of years."
Hadrian studied the Rock with careful attention. In his previous life, he'd seen Hogwarts—a castle that defied physics and logic, held together by magic and tradition. Casterly Rock was different. This was mortal ambition made stone. Human will carved into a mountain. No magic, just relentless determination and thousands of years of accumulated wealth and power.
It was terrifying in a completely different way.
The carriage procession wound through the city streets, crowds lining the route to catch a glimpse of the King and Queen. Hadrian saw prosperity here—clean streets, well-fed citizens, buildings in good repair. This was what competent rule looked like. What a lord who actually cared about effective governance could build.
*Tywin Lannister might be ruthless*, Hadrian thought, *but he's not incompetent. That makes him more dangerous, not less.*
They passed through three sets of gates—each larger and more impressive than the last—before finally entering the inner yards of Casterly Rock itself. The courtyard was massive, carved from golden stone, with the Lannister lion inlaid in crimson tiles across the ground.
And waiting there, arranged in perfect formation, was the Lannister family.
---
Tywin Lannister stood at the center, and Hadrian understood immediately why people feared him.
He wasn't particularly tall—about six feet, no more. He wasn't physically imposing like Robert. But he stood like a man who'd never questioned his own authority, never doubted his right to command. His hair was more gold than silver despite his age. His green eyes were cold, calculating, missing nothing.
He wore crimson and gold, every piece of clothing immaculate, every detail perfect. And when those eyes swept across the arriving carriages, Hadrian felt assessed, measured, and categorized in the space of a heartbeat.
Beside him stood a man who had to be Kevan Lannister—similar features but softer, less sharp. Then Genna Frey, broad and matronly but with eyes just as calculating as her brother's. Tygett Lannister, looking perpetually irritated. And—
"Uncle Tyrion!" Myrcella's squeal of delight broke the formal atmosphere as she spotted the dwarf standing slightly apart from his siblings.
Tyrion Lannister grinned, his mismatched eyes lighting up. "Hello, golden niece. Did you miss me?"
"Yes!" Myrcella practically launched herself out of the carriage the moment it stopped, running to Tyrion with all the grace of an excited puppy.
Hadrian saw Tywin's expression flicker—just for a moment—with something that might have been distaste or pain or rage, so quickly buried it was impossible to identify.
Robert descended from his carriage first, immediately moving to clasp hands with Tywin. "Lord Lannister. Your hospitality is, as always, legendary."
"Your Grace honors us with your presence," Tywin replied, his voice perfectly neutral. "Casterly Rock is yours."
The formal greeting completed, Tywin's eyes moved past Robert to where Cersei was descending from her carriage, her ladies helping her with the elaborate crimson gown she'd chosen for the arrival.
"Daughter," Tywin said, and something in his voice shifted—not warmth, exactly, but acknowledgment. Recognition of someone who mattered.
"Father." Cersei moved to him, and they embraced briefly—a careful, controlled gesture that spoke of duty more than affection.
Then Tywin's eyes found the children.
Hadrian felt that gaze like a physical weight. Assessing. Calculating. Deciding their worth in real-time.
"These are my grandchildren," Tywin said, and it wasn't quite a question.
"Yes, Father." Cersei gestured, and the children stepped forward in the order they'd practiced. "Hadrian and Perseus, my eldest sons. The King's heirs."
Hadrian and Percy moved forward together—they'd learned long ago that showing up as a unified front was more effective than trying to stand alone. They bowed, perfectly synchronized.
"Grandfather," Hadrian said, his voice clear and respectful.
"An honor to meet you, my lord," Percy added.
Tywin studied them in silence. Hadrian felt those green eyes—so like their mother's, so like Joffrey's—cataloging every detail. The dark Baratheon hair. The unusual eye colors—emerald and sea-green, wrong for either house. The way they stood, moved, held themselves with confidence beyond their years.
"You're the military strategists," Tywin said finally. Not a question. A statement.
"We offered suggestions during the rebellion, yes sir," Hadrian said carefully. "Whether they qualified as strategy is for others to judge."
"Stannis Baratheon doesn't accept suggestions from fools. If he implemented your plans, they had merit." Tywin's expression didn't change. "We'll speak more later. I have questions about your tactical reasoning."
It was dismissal and promise both. Hadrian and Percy bowed again and stepped back.
"Joffrey," Cersei said, guiding her golden son forward. "Your other grandson."
Joffrey had clearly been coached extensively. He bowed with perfect form, his golden hair catching the afternoon sun, his green eyes bright with nervous excitement.
"Grandfather," he said, his voice steady. "It's an honor to finally meet you. Mother has told us so much about you—about the legacy of House Lannister, about—"
"You're nervous," Tywin interrupted, studying the boy with clinical interest. "That's good. It means you understand the significance of this meeting." He paused. "How old are you?"
"Four and a half years, my lord."
"And can you read?"
"Yes, sir. Mother's been teaching me. I can read and write both, and I know my numbers, and—"
"Can you ride?"
Joffrey hesitated. "A little, sir. I've been learning, but—"
"But you're not proficient." Tywin's voice was flat. "We'll remedy that while you're here. A Lannister who cannot ride is useless." He looked at Cersei. "He'll train with the master-at-arms. Daily."
"Of course, Father," Cersei said, though her expression suggested she wanted to protest.
Myrcella was next, still clutching Tyrion's hand despite the septa's attempts to pull her away.
"This is Myrcella," Cersei said. "My daughter. Your granddaughter."
Tywin looked down at the little girl, and something in his expression softened—just a fraction. "You favor your grandmother," he said quietly. "Joanna had that same golden hair."
"Uncle Tyrion says I'm pretty," Myrcella announced with five-year-old confidence. "He says I'll break hearts someday."
"Tyrion says many things," Tywin replied, his voice going cold again. "Most of them inappropriate."
"He's funny though," Myrcella insisted, squeezing Tyrion's hand tighter.
Tywin's jaw clenched, but he didn't respond. Instead, he looked at the wet nurse holding baby Tommen.
"And the youngest?"
"Tommen," Cersei said. "Nine months old. Too young to present formally, but—"
"Bring him."
The wet nurse hesitated, then carried Tommen forward. The baby looked around with wide green eyes, taking in all the strange faces with infant solemnity.
Tywin studied his youngest grandson for a long moment. Then, surprising everyone, he reached out and took the baby from the nurse.
Tommen stared up at him, tiny fist waving. Then he smiled—one of those guileless baby smiles that had no guile, no calculation, just pure infant joy.
For just a moment, Tywin's expression cracked. Something that might have been grief or longing or memory passed across his face.
"He has Joanna's smile," Tywin said quietly, so quiet Hadrian almost didn't hear it.
Then the moment passed. Tywin handed Tommen back to the wet nurse, his expression once again perfectly controlled.
"Kevan will show you to your apartments," he said, addressing the royal family as a whole now. "You'll have time to rest before tonight's feast. Tomorrow, the tourney begins." He looked at Robert. "Your Grace, if you're amenable, I'd like to speak with you privately. About matters of state."
"Of course," Robert said, though his tone suggested he'd rather be drinking.
"And you two," Tywin said, his eyes finding Hadrian and Percy again. "After you've settled in, I'd like you to join me in my solar. There are things we should discuss."
It wasn't a request.
"Yes, Grandfather," they said in unison.
---
# The Royal Apartments - An Hour Later
The apartments assigned to the royal family were, predictably, obscenely luxurious. Hadrian and Percy shared a room that was larger than most people's houses, with a massive window overlooking Lannisport and the sea beyond.
"Well," Percy said, throwing himself onto one of the beds. "That was terrifying."
"Which part? The arrival? Grandfather's assessment? The fact that he immediately separated us for private interrogation?"
"All of it." Percy stared at the ceiling. "Did you see the way he looked at us? Like we were horses he was considering purchasing."
"We were being evaluated. We knew that was coming." Hadrian moved to the window, looking out at the city. "The question is what conclusion he reached."
"About us specifically, or about all of us?"
"Both." Hadrian turned back. "He dismissed Joffrey almost immediately—saw the nervous, undisciplined child and made a note to fix it later. He barely acknowledged Myrcella except to note she looks like Grandmother Joanna. Tommen made him *feel* something, which was unexpected."
"And us?"
"Us he wants to talk to privately. That means he sees potential. Or threat. Or both." Hadrian crossed his arms. "We need to be very, very careful in that solar. Every word we say will be analyzed. Every reaction noted. He's going to be looking for leverage, for weaknesses, for ways to influence us."
"So we give him nothing."
"We give him exactly enough," Hadrian corrected. "Too much resistance and he sees us as problems. Too much compliance and he thinks we're malleable. We need to show him we're intelligent enough to be worth cultivating, but independent enough to have our own minds."
"That's a very narrow line to walk."
"We've walked narrower ones."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Jaime entered, still in his Kingsguard whites, looking slightly uncomfortable.
"Your grandfather sent me to collect you," he said. "He's ready for your... conversation."
"How bad is this going to be?" Percy asked, sitting up.
"Honestly? I don't know." Jaime's expression was troubled. "Tywin's been asking about you two specifically for months. Grilling your mother in letters about your abilities, your education, your temperament. This meeting—whatever it is—he's been planning it for a while."
"Wonderful," Hadrian muttered. "Nothing says 'loving grandfather' like months of advance reconnaissance."
"He's not a loving grandfather. He's Lord Tywin Lannister." Jaime's voice was firm. "Everything with him is strategy. Position. Legacy. If he sees value in you—and he does, clearly—he'll try to shape you to serve his interests."
"And if we resist?"
"Then he'll find other ways to get what he wants. Tywin always does." Jaime put a hand on each of their shoulders. "Just... be yourselves. Be honest when you can. Be careful when you can't. And remember—you're his grandchildren. That counts for something, even with him."
"Does it?" Percy asked quietly.
Jaime was silent for a moment. "With Tywin Lannister, family is both your greatest protection and your greatest vulnerability. He'll use you, yes. But he'll also protect you. Because you're Lannisters—even if you're Baratheons too. That legacy matters to him more than anything."
"Comforting," Hadrian said dryly.
"It's all I've got." Jaime managed a slight smile. "Now come on. Don't keep the Lion waiting."
---
# Tywin's Solar - Casterly Rock
The solar was exactly what Hadrian expected—austere, efficient, dominated by a massive desk covered in neat stacks of correspondence and ledgers. The walls were lined with maps and shelves of books. A fire burned in the hearth despite the warm evening. And everywhere, in every detail, the message was clear: *This is where power lives.*
Tywin sat behind his desk, writing something when they entered. He didn't look up immediately—a power play, making them wait, establishing dominance.
Finally, he set down his quill and gestured to two chairs positioned in front of his desk.
"Sit."
They sat.
Tywin studied them in silence for a long moment, his green eyes moving between them like he was reading a language only he understood.
"Seven years old," he said finally. "You're seven years old, and you advised the Small Council on military strategy that won a war. Lord Arryn says you're the most gifted students he's ever taught. Your mother says you read philosophy. Ser Barristan says you fight like trained soldiers." He leaned back slightly. "Tell me. Are these reports exaggerated?"
"We're good students," Hadrian said carefully. "And we work hard. Whether that qualifies as 'gifted' is subjective."
"Don't dissemble." Tywin's voice was sharp. "I'm not asking for false modesty. I'm asking for honesty. Are you as remarkable as everyone claims?"
Hadrian and Percy exchanged glances.
*How much do we tell him?*
*Enough to be interesting. Not enough to be threatening.*
"We're advanced for our age," Percy said finally. "We learn quickly. We understand tactics and strategy better than most children. We've been trained in swordwork and we're competent."
"Competent." Tywin's eyebrow rose. "Ser Barristan Selmy doesn't use the word 'competent' lightly. He says you move like you've fought for years, not months."
"We're naturally athletic," Hadrian offered. "And we practice extensively. Muscle memory develops quickly when you're dedicated."
"Muscle memory." Tywin's tone suggested he didn't believe that for a second. "Let me be direct, then, since you seem determined to be evasive. You're *abnormal*. Exceptionally, impossibly abnormal. Children don't think the way you think, move the way you move, or speak the way you speak. Which means either you're lying about your capabilities, or there's something fundamentally different about you."
The silence stretched.
"We dream," Hadrian said finally, quietly. "Both of us. Since we were very young. We dream about... other things. Other lives. Wars and battles and knowledge we shouldn't have."
"Dreams." Tywin's voice was flat.
"Vivid dreams. Like memories." Percy leaned forward slightly. "We don't expect you to believe us. We barely believe it ourselves. But it's the only explanation we have for why we are the way we are."
"You expect me to believe you're reincarnated warriors?" Tywin's tone was skeptical but not dismissive. "That you lived previous lives and somehow retained the knowledge?"
"We expect you to believe we're unusual," Hadrian corrected. "How you explain that unusualness is up to you. Dreams, divine gift, genetic anomaly—we don't know. We just know we're different."
Tywin was silent for a long moment, his fingers drumming against his desk in a precise rhythm.
"Your father thinks you're simply brilliant children," he said finally. "Lord Arryn thinks you're touched by something beyond normal human capacity. Your mother thinks you're miracles." His eyes sharpened. "What do *you* think you are?"
"We think we're your grandsons," Percy said firmly. "We think we're the King's heirs. We think we're children trying to survive in a world that's more complicated and dangerous than anyone wants to admit."
"And we think," Hadrian added, "that you're evaluating us to decide if we're assets or liabilities to House Lannister."
Tywin's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Approval, maybe. Or respect for directness.
"You're perceptive," he said. "Yes. I'm evaluating you. Everything in my world is evaluated—measured for worth, assessed for utility. You are my daughter's sons. You are also the future King and a future great lord. That makes you either tremendous opportunities or significant complications."
"Which are we?" Percy asked.
"I haven't decided yet." Tywin stood, moving to the window. "You're brilliant—that's clear. You're capable, strategic, already thinking in ways that most adults never master. Those are valuable traits. But brilliance without control is dangerous. Without guidance, you could become problems rather than assets."
"So you want to guide us," Hadrian said. Not a question.
"I want to teach you how power actually works. Not honor and duty—your father and Lord Arryn are handling that education. I want to teach you how to think like a Lannister. How to see the board, understand the players, move pieces effectively." Tywin turned to face them. "Your father won his throne through violence. He has no idea how to actually rule, how to maintain power, how to play the game. But you—if you're as clever as I think you are—you could learn."
"Why would you teach us?" Percy asked. "We're Baratheons."
"You're also Lannisters. My blood. My legacy." Tywin's voice was firm. "And more importantly, you'll have power. Tremendous power. When you're King—" He looked at Hadrian. "—you'll control the realm. When you're Lord of Storm's End—" He looked at Percy. "—you'll command the Stormlands. That's influence worth cultivating."
"So you want to position yourself as our mentor," Hadrian said slowly. "Shape how we think about power. Gain influence over the next generation of rulers."
"Yes." Tywin didn't even try to deny it. "Is that a problem?"
Hadrian and Percy looked at each other again.
*He's being honest. That's... unexpected.*
*He's showing us the game because he thinks we're smart enough to play it.*
*Or he's seeing if we'll accept being pieces on his board.*
"It's not a problem," Hadrian said finally. "If the teaching is genuine. If you're actually trying to help us be better rulers, not just manipulating us to serve your interests."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive goals." Tywin moved back to his desk. "I can teach you to rule effectively *and* ensure that your rule benefits House Lannister. Good governance serves everyone. That's how power actually works—not through oppression, but through making yourself indispensable."
"That's very pragmatic," Percy observed.
"Pragmatism is the only political philosophy that matters. Idealism gets you killed. Honor gets you used. Cruelty makes you enemies. But intelligent, strategic pragmatism? That builds empires." Tywin sat down again. "I built House Lannister from a laughingstock into the wealthiest, most powerful house in Westeros through pragmatism. I can teach you to do the same with the Iron Throne."
"And what do you want in return?" Hadrian asked. "You're offering to mentor future kings. What's the price?"
"Smart question." Tywin's smile was cold. "I want competent rulers. I want the realm stable and prosperous. I want House Lannister's position secure for generations. And yes, I want influence—the ability to advise, to guide, to shape policy." He paused. "But mostly? I want to know that when I die, I'm leaving the realm in capable hands. Your father is a disappointment. A great warrior, yes, but a terrible king. You two—you could be better. If you're taught properly."
It was, Hadrian realized, probably the most honest thing Tywin Lannister had said in years. Not manipulation. Not scheming. Just... truth. He wanted competent rulers because incompetent ones destroyed everything he'd built.
"We'll accept your teaching," Hadrian said finally. "With conditions."
"Conditions?" Tywin's eyebrow rose.
"We're seven years old. We're not making binding agreements or promises. But we'll listen to what you teach, evaluate it honestly, and take what's useful." Hadrian met his grandfather's eyes. "We won't be your puppets. We won't blindly follow your advice. But we will learn from you—because you have knowledge we need."
"And we'll be honest with you," Percy added. "As honest as we can be. Which means sometimes we'll disagree. Sometimes we'll refuse your guidance. But we'll always explain why."
Tywin studied them for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiled—a real smile, not the cold thing he usually wore.
"You have steel," he said. "Both of you. That's good. Malleable students are useless—they become reflections of their teachers instead of rulers in their own right." He leaned forward. "Very well. I accept your conditions. And in return, I offer you this: honest teaching. No manipulation, no schemes hidden in lessons. Just knowledge about how power works, how kingdoms function, how to rule effectively."
"Deal," Hadrian said.
"Deal," Percy echoed.
Tywin stood, moving around his desk to stand before them. For a moment, he just looked at them—really looked, seeing them as people rather than pieces.
"You're remarkable children," he said quietly. "Whoever or whatever you were before this life—whatever these dreams mean—you're also my grandsons. That matters to me more than I expected it to."
Then he did something neither twin expected: he put a hand on each of their shoulders, a gesture of acceptance. Of acknowledgment.
"Welcome to Casterly Rock," he said. "Welcome to the family."
---
# That Evening - The Great Feast
The feast hall of Casterly Rock was carved from the living stone of the mountain, its ceiling so high it disappeared into shadow. Hundreds of lords and ladies filled the benches, wearing their finest, celebrating the King's victory and the tourney to come.
Hadrian and Percy sat at the high table, between Uncle Tyrion and Aunt Genna, watching the organized chaos with careful attention.
"So," Tyrion said, pouring himself wine with the practiced ease of someone who did it often. "How was your private audience with the Lion?"
"Educational," Hadrian said carefully.
"Terrifying," Percy added.
"Both can be true." Tyrion grinned. "What did he want?"
"To evaluate us. Decide if we're worth cultivating or problems to be managed."
"And?"
"He decided we're worth cultivating," Hadrian said. "Which is either good news or very bad news, depending on perspective."
"With Father, it's usually both." Tyrion took a long drink. "Fair warning, nephews—my father is brilliant, strategic, and completely ruthless. If he's decided you're valuable, he'll pour resources into developing you. But he'll also expect results. Returns on his investment."
"We got that impression," Percy said dryly.
Across the table, Robert was already three cups deep into celebratory drinking, telling war stories to anyone who would listen. Cersei sat beside him, smiling her perfect Queen's smile, but Hadrian saw the tension in her shoulders. Being back in her father's house, under his assessment, clearly had her on edge.
Joffrey sat between his mother and grandfather, trying desperately to look important. Every time Tywin glanced his way, the boy straightened, adjusted his posture, and attempted to look impressive.
It was painful to watch.
"Your brother's trying too hard," Genna observed, following Hadrian's gaze. "Someone should tell him that desperation isn't attractive."
"Someone should tell him a lot of things," Percy muttered.
"He wants Grandfather to approve of him," Hadrian said. "Wants to be seen as valuable."
"Tywin doesn't value desperation," Genna said flatly. "He values competence, control, and strategic thinking. Joffrey is showing him none of those things."
"He's four years old—"
"Tywin doesn't make allowances for age. You two are proof of that." Genna's expression was shrewd. "My brother invited you to his solar, didn't he? Had his little evaluation meeting?"
"You know he did," Hadrian said.
"Of course I know. I'm his sister—I've seen this play before. He's deciding which grandchildren are worth investing in and which are merely decorative." She paused, studying them. "Based on the fact that you're both still sitting here looking relatively unscathed, I'd say you passed his tests."
"What tests?" Percy asked.
"Intelligence, obviously. Independence—he hates sycophants. Honesty—Tywin respects directness, even when it's uncomfortable. And steel—the ability to stand up to him without being insubordinate." Genna smiled slightly. "How many of those did you hit?"
"All of them, apparently," Hadrian admitted.
"Good. That means he'll actually teach you instead of just using you." Genna's expression grew more serious. "But be careful, boys. My brother is generous to those he values, but he's also exacting. He'll push you, test you, demand excellence. And if you disappoint him—"
"We won't," Percy said firmly.
"Everyone disappoints Tywin eventually. The question is whether he considers the disappointment forgivable." Genna looked past them to where Tyrion sat, quietly drinking, not engaging with the festivities. "Some disappointments he never forgives."
The message was clear: *Don't end up like your uncle.*
"We'll be careful," Hadrian promised.
The feast continued late into the night—toasts to the King, to victory, to the upcoming tourney. Musicians played. Servants brought course after course of elaborate food. And through it all, Hadrian felt eyes on them. Lords assessing the royal heirs. Ladies calculating marriage prospects. Everyone measuring, evaluating, deciding their worth.
*This is what it means to be a prince*, he thought. *Being watched constantly. Being assessed like property. Being valuable only for what you can offer others.*
He hated it.
But he'd survive it.
They both would.
Because that's what they did.
---
# Lannisport, 290 AC - The Tourney Grounds, Day One
The tourney grounds spread across the fields outside Lannisport like a small city unto itself—pavilions in every color, banners snapping in the wind, the smell of roasted meat and horses and too many people packed into too small a space.
Hadrian stood with Percy in the royal box, watching the chaos organize itself. Below them, knights checked their armor, squires ran between pavilions with messages and equipment, and horses stamped nervously as they were prepared for the joust.
"This is barbaric," Percy muttered, watching two knights test their lances. "We're literally watching grown men try to murder each other for entertainment."
"They're not trying to murder each other," Hadrian corrected. "Just maim. Maybe cripple. Murder would be poor form."
"Oh, well, that's much better then."
They'd been at Casterly Rock for three days now. Three days of being paraded before lords, evaluated by family members, and subjected to Tywin's version of "education"—which consisted of lectures on resource management, strategic alliance building, and the proper way to crush opposition without creating martyrs.
It was exhausting and fascinating in equal measure.
"Your Graces," a voice said behind them, deep and rough as gravel.
They turned to find a mountain of a man standing in the entrance to the royal box. He had to be eight feet tall—possibly taller—with shoulders so broad he barely fit through the doorway. His face was brutal, scarred, with eyes that held no warmth whatsoever.
"Ser Gregor Clegane," the man said, his voice a rumble. "Lord Tywin sent me to guard you during the tourney. Said the royal heirs shouldn't be without protection."
Hadrian felt something cold settle in his stomach. He knew that name. Had heard it whispered by servants, mentioned in careful tones by knights. *The Mountain That Rides*. Tywin's mad dog. The man who'd killed Rhaegar's children during the Sacking of King's Landing—crushed a baby's skull against a wall, they said, then raped and murdered the mother.
"That's very thoughtful of Grandfather," Hadrian said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "But we have Ser Jaime—"
"Ser Jaime is guarding your mother and siblings," Gregor interrupted. His eyes were flat, dead. "Lord Tywin wants you protected separately. By someone capable."
*By someone terrifying*, Hadrian thought. *By someone whose mere presence sends a message: these children belong to House Lannister. Touch them at your peril.*
"We appreciate the protection," Percy said, and Hadrian heard the lie in his brother's voice. The careful control.
Gregor grunted—acknowledgment or dismissal, hard to tell—and positioned himself behind them. Close enough to intervene. Far enough not to crowd.
Close enough to listen to everything they said.
"Well," Percy muttered in Greek—a language they'd started using when they needed privacy, "that's not ominous at all."
"Grandfather making a statement," Hadrian replied in the same language. "The heirs to the throne under Lannister protection. Everyone sees the Mountain guarding us, everyone understands the implied threat."
"I hate politics."
"You hate *this* politics. You were fine with it when it involved killing monsters."
"Monsters were honest. They tried to eat you and you killed them. Simple." Percy's jaw clenched. "This—people smiling while planning betrayals, guards who are walking war crimes, grandfather who treat children like investments—this is worse."
"Your Graces," Gregor's voice rumbled. "Lord Tywin requests you speak a language others can understand. Security reasons."
*Of course*, Hadrian thought. *Can't have the heirs plotting in foreign tongues where the guard can't monitor.*
"Our apologies, Ser Gregor," he said aloud, switching back to the Common Tongue. "We were just commenting on the impressive turnout."
Gregor grunted again.
Below them, trumpets sounded. The tourney was beginning.
---
# The Melee - First Day
The melee was chaos given form—forty knights in a massive ring, fighting until only one remained standing. Blunted weapons, yes, but the impacts were still brutal. Hadrian watched men go down hard, heard the crack of steel on steel, saw blood where helms didn't quite protect faces.
"This is legal?" Percy asked, horrified. "This is *entertainment*?"
"This is how warriors prove themselves when there's no war to fight," Cersei said from her seat beside Robert. She'd been watching the twins carefully since the Mountain appeared. "How knights earn glory and coin."
"It's how idiots get themselves killed for no good reason," Robert said cheerfully, already working on his third cup of wine. "But it's damned fun to watch!"
The fighting had devolved into several smaller skirmishes. Hadrian tracked the notable fighters—a massive man with a red beard who fought like a bear, taking hits that should have felled him and laughing; a smaller knight in green who moved with surgical precision; several Westermen in Lannister colors who were being systematically dismantled.
"That's the Greatjon," Tyrion said, appearing at their elbow with his own cup of wine. He pointed to the massive red-bearded fighter. "Jon Umber. Lord of Last Hearth. Fought at Pyke, apparently distinguished himself in the siege. Robert invited several Northern lords to the tourney as reward for their service."
"He's enormous," Percy observed. "Even bigger than—" He stopped, glancing back at the Mountain.
"Gregor is taller," Tyrion said flatly. "But the Greatjon is nearly as strong and far more skilled. Also significantly less likely to murder people for entertainment."
"Low bar," Hadrian muttered.
They watched the Greatjon tear through three opponents in succession. The man fought with a massive greatsword, two-handed, putting his whole body into every swing. It was brutal, inelegant, and devastatingly effective.
"He's going to win," Percy said, tracking the patterns. "Look—he's forcing everyone toward the edges, limiting escape routes. In another five minutes, he'll have reduced the field enough to fight individually instead of managing multiple threats."
"You can see all that?" Tyrion asked, surprised.
"Percy's good with tactical analysis," Hadrian said. "Especially combat situations."
"Seven years old and reading melees like experienced commanders read battlefields. Normal." Tyrion's tone was dry. "You boys continue to make me feel inadequate."
"You're brilliant, Uncle," Percy said absently, still watching the Greatjon. "Just in different ways. We're good at violence. You're good at actually thinking."
"Thank you? I think?"
Ten minutes later, the Greatjon stood alone in the center of the ring, surrounded by fallen knights, roaring victory to the sky. The crowd erupted in applause.
"UMBER!" Robert bellowed, standing and raising his cup. "By the gods, that's what I call fighting! Jon, you mad bastard, that was beautiful!"
The Greatjon looked up at the royal box, grinned through his beard, and bowed with exaggerated courtesy.
"Your Grace honors me!" he called back, his voice carrying easily across the grounds. "Though I'm thinking the next round, maybe Your Grace should come down and show these southern knights how real men fight!"
The crowd laughed. Robert laughed hardest of all.
"Careful, Jon! I might take you up on that!"
"I hope you do! Been too long since I had a proper scrap with a king!"
Cersei's hand clenched on her armrest. "Robert, you're not actually considering—"
"Relax, woman. I'm not getting in the melee. Probably." Robert sat back down, still grinning. "Though gods, it's tempting. Look at him—barely winded, not a scratch on him. That's a warrior."
Hadrian studied the Greatjon more carefully. The man was a warrior, yes—but there was intelligence behind those eyes. He'd fought smart, not just strong. Used the terrain, managed his stamina, picked his battles. This wasn't just a brute. This was someone who understood combat at a deeper level.
*Could be useful*, Hadrian thought. *If we ever need Northern allies, the Greatjon seems like someone who values competence over politics.*
"Your Graces," Gregor rumbled from behind them. "Lord Tywin requests your presence in his pavilion. He wishes to introduce you to several lords."
"Now?" Percy asked. "The joust is about to start—"
"Now," Gregor repeated, and it wasn't a request.
They followed the Mountain through the crowd, aware of eyes tracking them. Two seven-year-old princes flanked by eight feet of armored death—it was a statement, and everyone understood it.
Tywin's pavilion was enormous, decorated in crimson and gold, with a high table where he sat with several other lords. He looked up as they entered, his expression unreadable.
"Hadrian. Perseus. Come." He gestured to the seats beside him. "There are people you should meet."
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